Time Immemorial
by Ashatara
Summary: It’s been years since Arthur’s seen Merlin, since Merlin saddled his horse – magically – and galloped away from his prince as far as the horse – and magic – could take him. Years. Months. Days. Hours. Minutes. Seconds. Time immemorial.


**A/N:** I dithered a bit over the posting of this. It has been though SO many edits now...

**Disclaimer:** Clearly I don't own Merlin. Or Arthur at that. Erm...Drawing on ideas from the BBC's Merlin, but bits and pieces from all over the place have probably slipped in. Like the cave.

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It's been years since Arthur's seen Merlin.

Years since Merlin left him.

Years.

To begin with, Arthur had expected Merlin back the next day, or the next, or the next one after that. Nothing had ever parted them for much longer. But when the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, and the seasons cycled on, Arthur began to despair. Winter after winter, Arthur waited. But Merlin did not return. Every year, to mark the year, Arthur lit a single candle and placed it against the window. Every year, to mark the year, he locked himself in his room and would neither eat nor drink until the candle had burnt out. He held vigil, waiting for Merlin to appear, before the candle flame died.

One year, he threw a tantrum, ordering servants to find the source of that absurd draft that kept blowing his candle out before it had been thoroughly spent. He had them thrown in the stocks when they couldn't. Three days later, after a talking to from Uther and Morgana both, he relented and gave up.

As the winters progressed, he complained of the cold. A fire was built up for him every night but the room - the bed - was still too cold. When he couldn't sleep, he watched the fire, thinking of Merlin. Always Merlin. On the bad nights, he barred the door and stayed in his room, alone, for the next day, occasionally poking at the fire for warmth. He refused to hire another manservant. Whatever they did, they wouldn't be enough; simply because they weren't Merlin.

On the day Arthur was crowned king, he hoped, he begged, he _prayed_ to anything and everything he thought might listen or help to bring Merlin back to him. Each time the doors swung open behind him, he spun, hoping to catch a glimpse of Merlin's toothy grin, or his apologetic face, or his sarcastic one, or his face at all. The wind howled outside, as if Camelot too, were lamenting the loss of her merlin. The idea scared Arthur. Had Merlin joined his father in death so soon?

That night, the panic overtook him. He wandered the castle – _his_ castle – quietly. He probably shouldn't have bothered with the 'quiet' part; it seemed the entire of Camelot was recovering from one too many drinks at the coronation feast. And for those who hadn't drunk…well, they were sober enough to realise just how freezing cold the castle could be in the middle of the night at the height of winter. It was a time of merriment and…and…joy? Arthur sighed. Surely it wasn't a good omen that he himself - leader of his people, Camelot's protector, _king_ - hadn't joined them?

He knew why.

He had always known why.

He wouldn't be whole again until Merlin came along and rekindled his hope.

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It's been months since Merlin's seen Arthur.

Months since Merlin saddled his horse – magically – and galloped away from his prince as far as the horse – and magic – could take him.

Months.

At first, he just ran. Ran far away. Far enough away that he couldn't see the spires of Camelot anymore. He nested for sleep wherever he found comfort, shelter, welcome.

But it wasn't enough.

And that was how he ended up at the crystal cave - or at least, that's what he calls it. The Crystal Cave. The walls sparkle at him. Not with wealth or riches, but with warmth…comfort…_love_.

He is home. His new home. His old home. His home regardless. It feels as if the cave has been waiting for him, calling for him. The cave itself is hidden from view, protected from - and by - the elements. Inside, rock and stone have shaped themselves over the years until what Merlin finds upon stumbling into the cave looking for rest, are quite comfortable (albeit simple) dwellings. He has chairs, bookcases, tables, a bed and even a few skylights. It's as if the cave was designed by some higher hand to be his dwelling place. It is larger than he expected, looking at it from the outside. And when he goes deeper into it's caverns, he finds a room, hollowed out and carpeted with thick greenery, where music sings through the air and he dreams true dreams. In his timeless cave, he can escape reality.

Yes. He's lost.

Yes. He wants Arthur.

But Arthur doesn't want him. Not anymore, anyway. A manservant, even a magical one, could never hope to have any lasting connection with their lord and master – save for the professional kind.

Not that Merlin cares.

But Arthur doesn't want him.

And that hurts.

So Merlin sits in his cave, alone. He reads. He writes. He doesn't bother with the outside world. It ceases to exist and in it's place is his own world, his own reality. The world and reality of his magic. Magic sustains him. Magic makes his lights. Magic keeps him warm. Magic keeps him alive.

The wildlife help too. The falcons fly through the holes to bring their oddly-shaped kinsman their prey for his food. The squirrels leave tokens of nuts and berries at his door. Nature sustains him, and he sustains nature. Through the winters, he needs no fire, no candle, no blankets. He needs only his magic. His magic grows. His bonds with the animals grow. Sometimes the wildlife pass the winter with him, when life elsewhere is too cold.

He is grateful for the company.

Life is peaceful.

For once.

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It's been days since Arthur's seen Merlin.

Days since he got angry and told him in no uncertain terms to get out. Days since he watched Merlin riding away, the sun glinting like gold off his eyes.

Days.

Arthur is not himself. The whole of Camelot can feel something is not quite right with their prince.

Gaius calls him depressed. Morgana calls him an idiot. He calls himself a prat.

The word itself stings.

Morgana tells him, if Merlin hasn't returned in a week, she will hate Arthur for life. She tells him every week. She extends it to months. The glimmer in her eyes hardens whenever he passes her.

She hates him. He's sure of it.

When his father died, she left. She'd been freed of any obligation to remain. She told Arthur she hated him. She told him to give up his damned pride and _search_ for Merlin. She told him she hated him. She took Guinevere with her. They rode off at dawn.

Arthur, keeping vigil, watched them run away from him too, and wondered briefly if he had become a monster.

He wandered the castle at night, every night. He couldn't sleep. Couldn't sleep, couldn't eat. And it was in this state that he first met the dragon.

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It's been hours since Merlin's seen Arthur.

Hours since he has woken from the dreams in his cave. Hours since he realised how much time had passed.

Hours.

Only hours.

He wonders how time managed to pull that trick over him. But time is unpredictable. It's only to be expected.

He calls himself several kinds of idiot, and variations on stupid too. And for the first time in a long time, Merlin walks outside into the sunshine, shading his eyes from the glare of the sun as he takes in the world he once lived in, the world he once protected with his life.

And he remembers his dreams.

And he remembers _Arthur_ in his dreams.

And he realises how much of a fool he has been.

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It's been minutes since Arthur's seen Merlin.

Minutes since Arthur was awaken from his slumber. Minutes since his dreams had been saturated with Merlin. Merlin's face, Merlin's voice, Merlin's body, Merlin's laugh.

Minutes.

He wished he hadn't been wakened from the dream.

He wished reality would fold in on itself.

He wished he could rewind time and set things straight.

He knows he can't.

He knows he's an idiot.

The dragon had said as much, on many and varied occasions.

The dragon talked to him a lot now, after the initial shock.

The dragon didn't _replace_ Merlin, but it filled a spot in Arthur's heart, mind, soul where Merlin would have resided. A replacement for a lost piece of a puzzle. A reinforcement in a wall.

The dragon was there to keep Arthur alive, keep Arthur sane.

Sometimes, he visits the dragon. Other times, the dragon visits him. And yet more times, they meet halfway, in a land owned by neither party; the world of the dreams.

It was there they made the deal that would set the dragon free.

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It's been seconds since Merlin's seen Arthur.

He's taken a few to compose himself before –

Suddenly, light spills into the castle through every window.

Arthur, falling asleep at his own window, jerks awake. He shields his eyes but his sight is invariably drawn through the blinding light to the candle.

It is still lit.

He breathes a sigh of relief. He'd wanted to wait. To wait and see it go out. To see _why_ it blew out, if there was no draft.

It is flickering.

– he smiles. One second he is watching through his mind. The next he sees the scene through his living eyes.

Arthur hears the doors about to swing open. Arthur ignores them. Arthur is too busy, transfixed by the flame of the candle. The doors swing open. The flame doesn't even respond. Arthur keeps watching it. He's not about to turn his back on it now. Not when he's come so far.

He hears a sound behind him.

And all of a sudden, he _knows_ that sound. He spins around to face him. Even before his eyes settle, he _knows_.

And there he is, the sunlight highlighting the gold glint in his eyes. The years have changed him subtly. He has rather more hair than Arthur remembers. He looks thinner than Arthur remembers. But it is still him. He steps out of the sunlight and Arthur is surprised to note that the gold in Merlin's eyes _isn't_ after all, a reflection of the sunshine.

For a second, he is unsure. Too many enchantments have been laid upon him of late. But if this _is_ really just an enchantment…then Arthur is ready to cave in, ready to sacrifice duty, honour, and Albion itself. For in those flickering gold and blue eyes, Arthur sees warmth…comfort…_love_.

Merlin, looking back into Arthur's eyes, wonders how he did not see it before. This was destined to be. Arthur's eyes are glittering, sparkling, and then there are tears. But even then, Merlin can see the apology, the loss, the love, the hesitation. Merlin can tell he – and his magic – are safe. Merlin smiles, and welcomes his prince – his king – into his arms.

Merlin is home. Arthur is home. And Camelot is rejoicing.

The dragon roams free.


End file.
